


John, I'm sorry.

by Yeranerdharry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canada, Cute, Dating, Engagement, England - Freeform, Fighting, First Post, I Don't Even Know, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Marriage, Murder, POV First Person, Swearing, Vancouver, We'll see what happens - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeranerdharry/pseuds/Yeranerdharry
Summary: A lil something-something I wrote for my uni's Sherlock class. Just testing the waters, not sure how I feel about it but if there's interest I may rejig it and continue writing! I quite like the idea but I'm not sure about how I've written it! It's basically some cute ass but a bit angsty but hopefully cute again Johnlock where the narrator of the story is transported into that universe. Let me know your thoughts! Where I should take the story, anything really. Feedback is fun... if it doesn't hurt my feelings... just kidding that's really up to you.





	John, I'm sorry.

I am Sherlocked  
Blog Post # 156  
11:37 P.M

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain pelted down on the windows of 221B Baker Street, where a sleeping Sherlock Holmes lay nestled on his tattered couch illuminated only by the light of a slowly dimming candle on the mantelpiece. It had been a long week. First the kidnapping of London’s premiere clothing designer, Elisabetta Valentine, just hours before the opening night of her new line at Burberry. Next the robberies at the Natural History Museum, where hundreds of priceless specimens had vanished overnight. And of course, Sherlock’s greatest foe James Moriarty was still terrorizing London and the boys at 221B Baker Street.

This time he had taken to picking off the members of the Baker Street Irregulars one at a time. To the general public this may have seemed like a service, but to John and Sherlock, it was a monumental problem. The BSI were their eyes and ears on the ground. They knew London better than the back of their hand, because who actually knows the back of their hand anyway? If Sherlock needed information on anyone or anything, from the Queen of England to The Tower of London, he could count on the Irregulars to get it for him in less than 24 hours in exchange for a warm meal or a new pair of socks. But now that Moriarty was on the hunt and taking out Sherlock’s favorite group of misfits like flies, the remaining members had disbanded and sworn off contact with Sherlock.Although he promised he could keep them safe with the help of Scotland Yard and his trusty “sniffer dog” Detective Lestrade, the Irregulars couldn’t help but think of all the times where Sherlock had been unable to keep his word. The bombings, the thefts, the murders, all things Holmes had promised to put an end to but couldn’t. He was just one man after all, and they could find their warm meals and new socks somewhere else.

So after an almost incredible week of attempting to solve all these crimes by himself, without the aid of John due to the influx of maimed and murdered Irregulars at Saint Bart’s, Holmes was exhausted and had fallen asleep at the ripe hour of 4 A.M.  
He wasn’t keen on the idea of sleeping either and had reminded John of that many times. In fact, earlier that night they had fought about it. 

“Let’s go to bed Sherlock,” John whined from his spot on the couch while Sherlock paced the length of 221B, stopping in the kitchen and jamming his head in a cupboard. 

“These crimes aren’t going to solve themselves John and the ordinary bumpkins Lestrade calls detectives aren’t going to do it either. Besides, sleep is for those who are disinterested in being awake and have nothing better to do.And I have something better to do John; there’s always something better to do. My mind palace isn’t going to fill itself you know,” Sherlock retorted his voice muffled and echoed from his spot inside the tea cupboard. 

“If you think for one minute I’m going to let Moriarty get the upper hand then--”

“SHUT UP.”, John shouted, exasperated.

Sherlock jumped, his head smacking the top shelf, knocking several teacups onto the tiled floor with a great shattering noise.

“What was that for,” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth, pulling his head out of the cupboard to face John. His hand was gripping the back of his neck and his face the colour of Molly's lipstick last Christmas. 

John rose from his chair and swiftly walked towards the window overlooking Baker Street. It was a quiet night, and only a few cabbies dared to drive through the rain-filled potholes down below.  
He turned to face Sherlock, their faces matching in colour. He opened his mouth and a voice deep and thick as the night came out.

“I AM SO SICK OF YOU TRYING TO TELL ME WHAT I DO, AND DO NOT KNOW. I AM SICK OF YOU TRYING TO ACT LIKE YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME AND THAT I DON’T KNOW YOU. OH, I’M THE GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES AND NO ONE WILL EVER UNDERSTAND ME,” John mocked, pulling an incredibly accurate face and continuing on his tirade, “FOR GOD SAKE SHERLOCK I KNOW YOU BETTER THAN ANYONE.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He had never seen John, his sweet and caring doctor act like this before. It was shocking, and if he was honest a little attractive.

“John--” Sherlock began. 

“No, Sherlock, I don’t want to hear it. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be special.”

Sherlock looked around the room, taking it in for the first time this evening. The candles lit on the mantelpiece had long since burnt out leaving little pools of wax in their wake, the meal John had prepared had gone cold, the roses he had given Sherlock when he came in, left on the table to wilt.

“ I’m such an idiot,” mumbled Sherlock under his breath.

“You think,” retorted John, already halfway to the door, buttoning his jacket. 

“Wait,” Sherlock whimpered, tears welling up in his great blue puppy-dog eyes. 

“Happy Anniversary,” John said with a quiver in his voice Sherlock had never heard before.

The door slammed, and John was gone. Sherlock got to the window just in time to see John jump into a cab and sputter off away from 221B and away from him.  
Sherlock waited as long as he could for John to return, fiddling with a small velvet box in his pocket. He had found it under the cupboard after John left when he was cleaning the broken china, he knew he put it in there somewhere. It must’ve fallen out when he hit his head. He was so preoccupied with finding that little box, and it’s precious contents that he hadn’t paid any attention to John all evening, not to the candles, or the flowers, or the beautiful meal that was now packed away in the fridge.  
Just before he fell asleep on the couch waiting, Sherlock stole one last look inside the box, at the gleaming golden band inside engraved with the words “The Game is Afoot” and, although a proclaimed atheist, he prayed that his doctor would come back to him. 

God, I think to myself, is this really what I want to write? I mean I love the story and the characters, don’t get me wrong. But what if people don’t like it? What if they think it’s boring, stupid, or cliche? What if my fans think I could do better, or write more thoughtful and exciting pieces? I mean puppy-dog eyes? Come on. I put my laptop at the foot of my bed and jump in. I look out my window at the vast expanse of the Vancouver skyline. Rain beats down on the windows of my apartment making it impossible to make out the buildings. The Sinclair Centre is my favourite. It’s old and historic and gives me such incredible wanderlust. Every night I look at it and dream of visiting London, seeing where Arthur Conan Doyle got his inspiration for my favourite boys, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Alas, that won’t be happening anytime soon. I’m broke, and Sherlock Holmes isn't even real. He's just a fictional detective and it's all just a story, and a heterosexual story at that. Even though they’re clearly meant to, John and Sherlock will never be, thanks for that one Steven! But I can at least provide the fandom with the first chapter of my next story.

I clamber out of bed and make my way to the kitchen, it’s late, and everyone is asleep. I turn on the tap and fill the kettle, placing it gingerly on the stove. Digging through the cupboards I find my favourite mug, it’s big and heavy and has a worn out Union Jack on it because of course, it does. Every time I’m about to post a new story or chapter I make a cup of tea first, it’s warm and comforting, and it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay. Tonight’s tea of choice is Earl Grey, quintessentially British and my favourite. The kettle begins to squeal just as I drop the tea bag in my cup. In goes the water, two sugars, and a splash of milk. I head back to bed scared of what awaits me. My laptop sits open where I left it, the upload page, mouse hovering over the submit button. Well, here goes nothing. Tea in hand I’m about to click submit just as my twenty pound tabby jumps into my lap, spilling tea all over the keyboard. 

Fuck Stamford, I snarl, swatting away the fat cat and rushing to save my computer. I make a note to myself to put him on a diet and grab a towel from the laundry bag in the corner of my room, making haste cleaning up the growing puddle on my bed. Just as I’m about to clean my computer, I realize it’s still plugged in.  
Well, that would have been a disaster, I think to myself leaning over my bed to unplug it. The moment my wet hands make contact with the outlet, everything goes black. I feel a searing pain rushing from the tips of my fingers to my temples, but I can’t seem to open my eyes enough to focus on it. I fall back into bed thoughts whirring through my head. Am I dying? No, you overdramatic idiot, it was just a little shock! Why do I feel so bad, why can’t I see anything clearly? Is my computer okay? Did my story save? Who cares right now? Just try to focus on something.  
I try to open my eyes but can only see the faint outline of the city and a helicopter flying by in the distance before I pass out.

My dreams are weird. Must be from the shock. First I’m flying in the TARDIS with Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, then I’m a sheepherder in Ireland, then I am the sheep, then I’m Neil Armstrong, taking one small step for man and one giant leap for mankind. Then I feel a distinct wetness, must be Stamford licking my face. He does that when I don’t feed him on time. I try to push him away, but the moistness persists. It starts to feel more like a dripping than the sandpapery scratchiness of Stamford’s tongue on my cheek. I reach out to try and find him, but my hand falls through the air and onto something hard and cold. I pick up a handful of whatever lies beneath me, struggling to focus on the smooth, wet multicoloured ovals I find when I open my eyes. What the hell? I must be having another dream. 

This time I’m laying on the shores of what looks to be the River Thames. I can see the Tower Bridge in the distance, all sparkly under the glow of the moonlight. I’ve had this dream before but never this vivid. It’s pouring, and something is digging into my back. A stick and it fucking hurts. Funny, I’ve never felt pain this acutely in a dream before. I try to stand up but feel woozy and sick. My foot catches on a lump of material plopped in front of me, and I face plant into the stones and knock myself out. I have an irrational fear of falling, from high places, low places, even just tripping on my shoelace so a fall like this in a dream should wake me. 

But when I feel myself being shaken awake and the glow of the morning sun hitting my back, I turn to find not the gentle face of my mother but a man I’ve never seen before. He’s about six feet tall from what I can see from my spot on the ground. He’s wearing a dirty plaid shirt underneath a puffy hunting jacket. His blue jeans are ripped and muddied and almost as greasy as his hair and scruffy beard.

“Get up lass,” he says in a gruff and scraggly voice.

“We’ve got to keep moving if we want to stay out of the gutter.” 

I must still be dreaming. I shake my head and pinch my cheeks but I’m still in London, and this smelly old man has still got a vice grip on my arm. I try to pull away, but he keeps insisting we move as quickly as possible. He’s dragging me now, but I’m not about to get abducted by some crazy old man with as many teeth as I have fingers. 

“LET GO,” I shout, my breath emerging as a cloud in the crisp London air. 

“Suit yourself then. S’not my problem if you’re the next to go.” 

He turns away from me and jogs off down the path past a group of American tourists taking selfies with the Tower Bridge in the background.  
I’ve got to wake myself up. I look around, ahead of me are tourists crowding a paved walking path, taking photos of the river and sipping their morning coffees. To my left is a park filled with birds and old couples holding hands. To my right, about twenty feet away is the river. No wonder my back hurts, I think, as I look down at the multicoloured pebbles that line the riverbank.

I get up, still dizzy and make my way towards the water. It’ll be cold this time of year, but it should be enough to wake me up. I take my shoes and socks off, leaving them by the water’s edge and slowly wade into the water. I’m up to my knees, and it’s freezing, but I have to do it.<

“3, 2, 1,” I say to myself and dunk my head in. I struggle to breathe under the weight of the freezing water, but I force myself to stay under just a few seconds longer. Suddenly, I feel a hand grabbing the back of my collar, pulling my head up with a jerk. It's the old man and this time he’s not letting go. 

“Come on girly, Moriarty’s men are close by, and they're not letting any of us kind get out alive.” 

I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, it's hot and moist and smells like black coffee and day old bread. I rise out of the water, and for the first time since I “woke up” here I take stock of myself. I’m not wearing the pyjamas I went to sleep in but rather an ensemble quite like the old man, ragged black track pants and a baubled red sweater that has certainly seen much better days. The man is pulling me away from the water now and into the park. I look back towards my shoes, sitting on the rocks, just as two burly looking men with military haircuts and cell phones to their ears scoff and kick them into the icy abyss. 

We finally stop, after running for what seems to have been miles, but in reality, it was probably only a dozen blocks or so. The sun is still high in the sky, but it has become shrouded in clouds, a sure sign of rain. A crack of thunder bursts through the air, and the downpour begins. Brightly coloured umbrellas start popping up all over the street as families and groups of students on term break rush into various teahouses and souvenir shops that dot the street. The old man and I take refuge under the awning of “Sir Lumiere’s Fine Chocolates and French Pastries”. A hand painted wooden sign dangles underneath, swaying in the wind. It reads “Try the Grey Stuff; It’s Delicious”. I chuckle to myself; I can’t resist a good Disney reference. 

“Us Irregulars got to take care of each other,” the old man says after some time of heaving and panting. And that’s when it dawns on me. I'm not in a dream at all. The pinching, the falling, the ice cold water, it all should’ve woken me up. And once this old man, who’s now introducing himself as Wiggins, mentioned the Irregulars, it all comes together. 

I’m in my story, and I’m being hunted by the greatest criminal mastermind of all time, James Moriarty. It must’ve happened when I shocked myself after Stamford knocked my tea onto my laptop. I turn to face Wiggins, but he has already gone. There’s only one person that can help me now, and I know exactly where to find him.  
After hours of struggling to understand the tube and London’s bizarre transport system. I finally arrive. The rain has let off, and the sun is setting, bathing the old brick building in a beautiful pink and orange glow. I walk up the crooked wooden steps to the black iron door. Taking the golden lions head knocker in hand, I knock three times and hope for the best. It seems as though hours have passed before the door creaks open. I can hear the TV in the background playing reruns of Bakeoff as I peer in and am eye to eye with an older woman wearing a knitted sweater and loafers.

“I’m sorry deary, but he’s not seeing any clients right now. You’ll have to find help elsewhere.”, she says and begins to close the door.

I’m dumbfounded, that’s not the detective I’ve come to know and love. I've come all this bloody way and I'm not about to be denied just because a certain moody someone is going through relationship troubles that I may or may not have caused.

“But I need him; he’s the ONLY person who can help me.” 

“Like I said, dear, he’s not taking any clients, and he’s in a bloody state right now, so it’s best you go before we wake him.” 

“Now shoo,” she says with a whoosh of her hands, waving me down the stairs. “You’re making a right mess of my porch.” 

Just as she’s about to close the door, I shout the only thing I can think of as a last-ditch effort to save my skin and fix this mess. 

“Sherlock Holmes, I know you're up there and I know about John,” I holler towards the second story window. 

The woman rolls her eyes, muttering something about nutters and increasing the rent, and from the crack in the door, I can see a light flick on at the top of the stairs. A silhouette appears, tall and thin and from it, a voice emerges, smooth and thick and just as beautiful as I imagined, god he is beautiful. 

“Get in,” he hisses. I step over the threshold of 221B Baker Street about to meet my dearest, darling, Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
